Crescendo
by Vashagud
Summary: There is a promise inside the rising crescendo in his head. And he wants that more. Sephiroth centric, some Seph/Zack.


Tseng had muttered something absurd about apples and Lieutenant Fair while standing in his office on an overcast afternoon, something sounding far too somber to be flippant even as his brown eyes flashed with a subtle impertinence that Sephiroth knew very well in Turks.

He wasn't actually in charge of Tseng, but sat high enough on the company ladder that he could reach him when he needed to. And now that exercise of authority settled awkwardly between them as Tseng stood in front of his desk, knowing things he was sure Turks knew, but telling nothing as he knew Turks did.

"General, we have as many answers as you do. General Rhapsodos—"

"Stop." He said softly, suddenly, and Tseng looked a little more interested than a few seconds before, but just as annoyed. Sephiroth didn't need anything recounted, there was no question as to the what, but he needed to know the why.

He needed to understand why.

"With all due respect, Zack might be able to give you a better insigh-" Sephiroth waved his hand.

"I doubt that very much." Sephiroth said, thinking of that mile wide smile that still existed in resilient little pieces. He thought about how he'd stood at his door and claimed to be his friend, attempted to get him to feel things he definitely did not feel.

He'd always known that Genesis was capable of this, he could recognize what envy looked like even at age fourteen but had never understood what there was to be envious of. Genesis had laughed when he asked why it was so important to him, he had laughed and put his fingers through his hair in a way that made Sephiroth want to break his wrists if it hadn't felt sogood_, _and he'd said that 'angels weren't ones to covet wings.' Or something along those lines.

And now Angeal was dead.

"The documentation is done, and Fair was as cooperative as could be expected. Sir, despite all that has happened, he is still eager to do his job—or any that might be given to him." Tseng said, and Sephiroth narrowed his eyes, understanding the not so subtle reference to his own refusal to do a mission that had been meant for him.

The taste in his mouth was bitter when he swallowed and he looked down into his cold coffee.

"Perhaps you are right. There is nothing you can tell me that I do not already know." Sephiroth said. "I think you should go now." Tseng nodded, headed towards the door but then stopped in the doorway. Sephiroth waited.

"The report on Hewley was finished at five this morning. It might be worth your time to look into it." With that he was gone and Sephiroth watched the door close, as he had seen many of them do.

------

The storeroom was a place he knew well, he'd had to fill enough reports in the more ludicrous part of his job, he'd had to reference more than a few. Technically though, he didn't have clearance to touch any of it without official reason, but that was a rule he'd broken when he was sixteen.

He'd been standing in the very same spot he was standing in now, searching as if his life had depended upon an answer he knew he'd probably never find. Once had had been convinced that some piece of her existed in a report, photo or newspaper clipping--- some palpable thing he could hold in his hands, but there was nothing.

He can't recall how old he was when he asked about his mother for the first time. Maybe five, maybe six. There were always the people in white coats, and he'd used to watch them through the haze of each new series for anything in their faces that matched his own. There was never even the slightest match that satisfied him, and for a while he wondered if he had not just appeared in the lab all on his own.

But then there was Hojo, a man he never even considered once as a prospect. At five-six years old when all there was of the man were syringes and cold hands, he preferred the scenario of having made his own life. He dreamt of days he'd be taller and stronger, he dreamt of putting his fingers right through those two black eyes. But when he was a little older, he realized that everything on earth had predecessors, like all the plants and animals in his textbooks.

It was through all of the text that he no longer found comfort in just appearing, and also through his study that his focus shifted from both parents to just one in particular. He read about mothers, and would slow down just for those parts that explained all of the things he felt were more fantastic than the thought of having come into life on his own. He wanted to know this woman who was responsible for his life, who maybe had hair like his. He wanted to know his mother. He realized that if anyone were to know about his own parents, it would be Hojo.

Sephiroth leaned his head against the shelf and closed his eyes. Even the stale smell of the older records was nearly the same as it was that day he'd come looking on his own.

He remembered that for a while he hadn't had the nerve to ask. He had never seen her once, and he knew that asking about it wouldn't make her come back. It wasn't very long before he didn't just want to know who she was, but _why_ she wasn't around. Finally at eight or seven, he was tired of holding the suspicious silence that had always existed around the issue.

He'd asked during a treatment, so that Hojo would have no hope of evasion.

_"Where is my mother?"_ Even now many years removed from the situation, he remembers Hojo's face. How there was hardly any change in it, not a moment's hesitation before he said—

_"She has been dead for quite some time, Sephiroth. Be still, this is a very important series and I won't have…"_ something or other, something or other. Even now, he remembers how that felt. How he had known that something like that was probably true, that asking questions didn't change anything, but as he ripped his arm away and the needle clattered to the floor, all he wanted to do was grab it back up and stab the professor right in his chest, through the breast pocket on his white coat with all the pens, to the place where he'd learned the heart was. Because he'd read that in order to kill anything, it was better to go for the heart.

"Doing some late research?" Sephiroth started, feeling as if he had almost drifted into the first slumber he'd had in weeks. Turning around, with the hilt of Masamune as close to his hand as it was mainly because he hated being snuck up on, or allowing himself to be snuck up on, he found a familiar shape in the doorway.

"What do you want?" he asked, hand moving away from his sword but no less annoyed. Lazard sighed, his glasses flashing in the light cast from the sole computer in the room, the only thing cutting into the darkness of the storage room.

"I actually have the clearance to be here, General." Sephiroth blinked and turned back to face the shelves.

"Are you going to stop me?" Sephiroth said, any laughter that might have filled the question gone in favor an apparent weariness that made him want to cringe. At that he could hear Lazard moving further into the room, he could hear Lazard's fingers sliding over the records as he came closer.

"We both know that I couldn't, even if I wanted to." He said, and Sephiroth stilled and turned to look at the other man through the corner of his eye.

"And you don't want to." Sephiroth said. Lazard took off his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose.

"No, not really. I have my own questions to answer."

The search for report on Angeal was a short one. It was recent enough that he didn't have to go through the drudgery of sorting through many of the old ones, where the subject was nearly indistinguishable, let alone the print inside.

"The files are all in the system you know." Lazard said from his spot at the shelves, the spot where all the oldest files were, the same spot Sephiroth himself had stood in eleven years ago. None of those were in the system.

Sephiroth did know, but he couldn't quite bring himself to sit at the large screen in the middle of the room, or type in all the appropriate words on the convenient little keyboard that lay there. Whether by some transference of past memories in the storeroom, or a greater need of proof he could touch, he needed to hold the report in his hands.

Flipping the file open, at the barest glance he was surprised by how concise it was. _Disgraceful_, was what the first thought and _traitor _was the second, in a violent reaction he hadn't quite expected. He didn't know how he could take issue with a casualty of the language, but loathe the subject of the language all at once.

On very few occasions had he felt more than one thing at once. The very first occasion had been with Angeal, who had been precocious at fifteen, so much so that he knew exactly how to get into trouble without actually getting into trouble, an art neither Sephiroth nor Genesis had ever perfected.

Genesis's kind of trouble was utterly reckless, gotten into mostly for the very sake of it. Sephiroth knew that his own trouble was nothing like Angeal's or Genesis's, which was apparent from the day he met them and realized so much in himself just by contrast.

For his trouble was always fully intentioned, and usually so destructive it had never come without the resulting high that mitigated any damage he might've done.

But even then Angeal had stood by that strange notion of honor, and expected that Sephiroth do the same. It was an expectation he had never intended to fulfill, but Angeal had told him that there was always room to grow, be better. And he had laughed, asked Angeal if it was possible to be better if you were the best. He had always known he would be great, resigned to the voices in his head like Genesis's and Hojo's that were so certain of the potential he would realize.

Angeal had just nodded, said that at least he had the dream part down. It occurred to him then that Angeal might have liked him the same even if he wasn't the best.

It confused him as much as it made him swell with a euphoric suspicion he could only answer with his lips, standing somewhere in Angeal's black dormroom.

He wanted to tear the file into a million tiny little pieces. But instead he closed it, slid it back into place. He looked back up to see Lazard rifling through the same shelves, glasses sitting on a neighboring shelf. In those glasses, he saw Hojo for the briefest instant, before Lazard shoved a file into place with a heavy, shaking hand.

His phone went of suddenly with a shrill ring, but he only stood there, staring the shelves and making no move to answer. Sephiroth watched him from where he stood, and when the phone stopped ringing Lazard spoke.

"There's a sound file attached to the report that can be accessed by anyone with premium level clearance."

"I don't-" Lazard pulled a silver ring holding an obscene amount of key and swipe cards out of his pocket.

"You do." Sephiroth only looked at him. "I don't need them anymore." Lazard said, holding them out. Sephiroth took them.

"Why." A silence descended between them before Lazard took his blazer up from a nearby chair, slipped it on and spoke as he did the buttons.

"Too many of the most important questions go unanswered," he paused to finish the last button, "and all the things you never wanted to know are the things you know best." Sephiroth looked at the cards in his hand.

"Who were you looking for?" he asked, and Lazard stilled, apparently shocked that it had been so obvious. He shook his head.

"Just a woman I knew I long time ago. I've since lost contact."

"And you believed you would find her here." Sephiroth said, as Lazard put his glasses back on and started towards the door.

"No, I don't think I did."

------

When he listens to the sound file, he is back in his own apartment sitting what has essentially been his bed for the past three weeks. It is the only chair in his living room, and the moment he presses start and hears the questions start he feels his eyes closing.

The questioning voice is surprisingly not Tseng's, but a female Turk he can't quite remember. Zack's voice is easily recognizable, marked with the unfailingly bright timbre he couldn't forget if he wanted to. It nearly forces his eyes open, because he can't completely rest at the sound of it.

He keeps thinking of Zack standing at his door in the early morning, with that expectant look in his eyes. It bothers him like an itch he can't reach, or some gnat by his ear that he can't manage catch in his hand.

_Was it in self defense? _The indiscriminate Turk's voice asks and the immediate answer is _No, _which makes Sephiroth sit up.

"General Hewley didn't attack you then."

"That thing…wasn't Angeal."

"It wasn't."

"It was but…he wouldn't do anything like this, you don't understand—"

"Did the monster attack you?" There pointed silence fell, no background noise, nothing.

"Monster…why did you say monster?"

"I believe that was the term you used."

"I did, didn't I?" Sephiroth can hear tapping, like fingers on a table. "Is this how we're all supposed to end up?"

"Lieutenant."

"I looked at his face after. He looked like he might open his eyes. He didn't. That's what this is right now, because I keep thinking about Genesis and his _fucking_ book, I keep seeing everyone around here and I'm just expecting someone to tell me that's it all-

"Lieutenant Fair."

"No, Ciss, look at me, this is a joke, tell me this isn't-" The Turk's response is not immediate, and the pause is covered badly by a cough.

" I'm…asking you to cooperate." The silence after this is lengthy enough for Sephiroth to count ten heartbeats.

"I killed him."

"Who."

"I killed…Angeal Hewley."

"Why?"

"Because…because…it was my turn to be the monster."

The file ended just like that, and Sephiroth closed his computer softly. He supposed the boy was smarter than he'd thought.

-----

He couldn't say that news of Lazard's disappearance was surprising, more than anything he was surprised to receive such mundane orders. A mako reactor in a mountain town didn't seem a top priority at such a time, and though the chance of making connections was a prospect, he was certain that of all places Nibelheim didn't hold any of the answers to any of the questions that really mattered.

Zack seemed to feel the same way, but was of course more forthwith. Sephiroth could only give him the rationalizations he'd told himself, inwardly perplexed with the first class soldier.

There was not a sign in the southerner's face that he had ever once stood at his door looking for the right words to be said. There was nothing in his voice that harkened of interrogation rooms, realizations of the monster waiting for every one of them.

He was pleased that Zack had at least resigned to this, but at the same time he found himself travelling in his mind towards a naïve, southern soldier, full of hope and all that unrelenting optimism.

Somehow, it felt as if something had been lost.

-----

There is a boy on the lift there. He is towheaded, and holds his helmet between his knees as he talks quietly with Zack. He doesn't smile like Zack, he doesn't seem to smile _at all_ really, which is something Zack clearly feels as if he can fix. But they are similar in a way that almost makes him ill, and leaves him seeing visions of Angeal days after he'd taken a pupil too much like himself.

Sephiroth wonders why he could not have taken his dreams and honor to the grave, instead of leaving them in the eager hands of his student, who would inevitably find another to give them to. Sephiroth sees it happening already, in the eyes of this boy who doesn't smile, even though Nibelheim is apparently his home.

Zack says loudly that he thinks of him as a hero, it is meant to embarrass him---and though Sephiroth has heard it all before, he thinks this time about what it means.

When the mountain air hits his face, he discerns that he is not a hero. A hero would tell the truth about dreams, a real hero would destroy them before they ever got the chance to seed.

------

It's strange the way the atmosphere feels; the moment he sets both feet on the ground, he feels as if the air is _swallowing him_, but not unpleasantly. There is a girl who is waiting for them, and she runs forward with a familiarity Sephiroth doesn't understand, and stars in her eyes that he does.

He thinks about putting those stars out, and yet he knows this is something not easily done. Girls like her, and even boys like the one Zack has taken a liking to, are the hardest to deter. The admiration never used to bother him, but as he stares into the camera flash, he begins to resent it.

None of them really understand, and as they all disperse he thinks again of putting stars out, of the way stars die, burning a bright path down to earth.

It is the most fitting death he can think of.

----

_You said average soldier, what about you?_

They are abominations. His eyes give him confirmation enough, but he actually knows why they're like that, Hojo's hand in it is distinct and unsurprising. He and all of the SOLDIER share a common root with the…thing before him.

_You said average soldier, what about you?_

But his link is much stronger, isn't it?

_What about you?_

He has never liked apples, not even the ones Genesis brought back from Banora, and he doesn't like them any more now as Genesis---a name which rings of irony---a grey, wilted version of his friend, holds one out to him.

Everything he says is couched in a terrible noise that instead seems to amplify, which is sure to garner the exact amount of affect he is sure Genesis wants, and Sephiroth, spurred by memories of old days, wants to dismiss it as the typical translation of Genesis's cruel passion into insignificant words, but he can't.

Genesis's capability for cruelty doesn't surprise him. He has said horrible things, done them even better, all with a smile on his face. And now watching him in all his audacity to ask for favors after what he's done, he pictures his friend rotting away with all of his delusions. And he almost smiles.

Sephiroth thinks, they are closer than they have ever been now. It is perhaps all that Genesis has ever really wanted, and as he knocks the apple from his hand, he wonders if the reality is as good as the dream.

He knows that it isn't.

---

When he is back in his hotel room, he finds that the noise has kept up even though he is alone, pacing the small space of his room. He notices the fibres in the carpet, the gloss of the reading desk in the corner. He is hyperaware of every detail, he sees everything as he always has, in perfect representation. He is convinced that he couldn't have missed something so significant, he is not a fool, he is the General of the most feared army in the world, and he's certain that he's… human.

Even as he thinks this he tears off his gloves and throws them to the floor and lifts his hands up. Thumb, index, middle, ring and pinky, both sets of five are pale, completely steady. It is flimsy proof, and so is the heartbeat in his ears. He knows it, and feels the same fingers itching to bury themselves in his hair. He stands in front of the mirror when he does that, when he pulls all of his hair into one hand and holds it taut under the light.

The light bounces off of it like the alloy it resembles, and he grinds he teeth. It's as if the lights are mocking him. It is like they're laughing at him. He looks into the mirror and tells himself that he is human, and the laughter, it gets _louder._

He can _hear _it.

When flips off the light, he breathes. The darkness is better, and he breathes in again. But when he looks up into the mirror he looks into his own eyes and they—

They are not human.

He is also not alone, and he can sense the presence in the doorway. When he turns his head, he can not only feel Zack but he can see him. It is black as pitch and he can still see him. Everything that has transpired is in his eyes, they are blue and nearly violet around the irises, they have the beginnings of a glow and they are filled with a mixture of things Sephiroth does not care to understand.

"Go away."

"Listen, Sephiroth I know-"

"What do you know?" What did any of them really know?

"I…" the question has apparently ripped away his momentum, extinguished whatever grandiose gesture of humanity he had in mind, and Sephiroth really can't even stand to feel his presence anymore. "I know Genesis will do anything to get what he wants." It is a weak rationalization that makes his skin crawl, because for all that he appears to be, Zackary Fair is not _stupid_ and couldn't be more transparent when pretending to be. Sephiroth hears in his voice that he has also heard Genesis words, and has heard the sense they make.

"You must think me a fool." Sephiroth said, "But perhaps I have believed enough lies to warrant it. You'll be disappointed to find that this has changed." There is a thread that has always existed along side the boy, and now Sephiroth can feel it drawing taut.

"You're not a monster."

"Really. How many of us have you tried convince of that now? " He can hear the pause it gives, he knows the wound he has just poked. Zack frowns.

"Are we back here again, Sephiroth?" It's interesting how things that seem to be gone are only lurking under the surface. Sephiroth realizes this is true with Zack, who still has such obvious open wounds over what he has lost, and the twin ideals of dreams and honor crashing down around him. Sephiroth can't be moved to feel sorry for him. Sephiroth can't be obliged to keep from slicing into those wounds himself.

"Only because you are always so eager to return."

"_I_ am? And you feel nothing, is that it? Even though they were your friends, even though Angeal was your friend?"

"I remember this." Sephiroth said. "This is the part where you are my friend as well, right?" He could nearly feel Zack's deflation, and it gave him a thrill he could feel everywhere. "That's very kind of you."

"You know what, even if everything Genesis said was true," Sephiroth looked up, "You would still have a choice. But maybe it's easier for you to think that you don't have one, just like it's easier for you to feel nothing because no matter what you do you can't understand-"

"Get out." He can't believe the nerve, that the boy actually thinks he _knows _anything at all.

"No." When Sephiroth spins around, he only needs but two sweeping steps to be close enough to hoist him up by his shirt collar, but he won't stop talking, _he won't stop talking._

"I bet it's easier to ignore what you don't understand," he says in strangled gasps, "I bet it's easier not to feel." His hands are grabbing down onto his shoulders, either to push himself up away from suffocation or for some other reason Sephiroth doesn't want to acknowledge in his bright eyes.

"It's harder to be human." He says, and there is a noise drowning out unexpected sense it makes. He puts Zack down and looks into his eyes. The boy doesn't understand.

In a different time, under different circumstances he imagined that he might know intimately the pieces that made this soldier. He might have let himself be known as well, all the details having nothing to do with armor and war, something to do with skin and skin. In a glimmer of clarity, Sephiroth sees the survival of a dream and it is not foolish, but good.

It is good like the fingers in his hair at fourteen, the kiss in the dark at fifteen and the kiss he takes now at twenty five. He is certain this is the last one he will ever want. But there is a promise inside the rising crescendo in his head. And He wants that more.

" Yes, it is always hard to be something you're not."

* * *

Author's Note: So after another frustrating block, I started to get the feeling for something again and I jumped into it but stopped. I've noticed that I happen to really like those sweeping passionate moments the most, I like writing them and I like getting right to them. But I thought about it and I realized some of the stories I like the most, I like because of the careful build up. I hope that I've done that here, and didn't just bore you since a lot of this ran along the same lines as the actual story. I really tried to stay away from plot summarizing and tried to make it interesting, but you all are the judges. But no matter what though, I'm totally pleased/shocked with myself that I managed the patience to do it like this. I really hope you enjoy, this baby was a long time cookin and I'm happy to get it out there.


End file.
